After finishing his run. Which was mostly walking with the occasional burst of sprinting.
James dragged himself back home, sweat clinging to him like a second skin.
What greeted him was his father's car parked beside the house.
Aaron was already back from work.
As James stepped inside, he debated whether to take a bath first and risk sweating all over again from cleaning and doing push-ups, or skip the bath and just... suffer through it, but sweatier.
"I should take a bath," he muttered, rubbing his neck. "I don't want to smell bad while I'm cleaning."
And so, he stepped into the bathroom and rinsed off the day's effort.
Afterward, he changed into fresh clothes and made his way to the living room, where he found his father silently mopping the floor.
"Dad... let me do it," James said, gently reaching for the mop.
Aaron turned slightly, a tired smile on his face as he handed it over.
"I heard from your mother... that you got a job opportunity."
He paused, his back still facing James.
"I'm proud of you, son."
James felt that strange warmth again in his chest—quiet, glowing, heavy in the best way.
"Thank you," he replied softly.
That was it.
No long speeches. No fanfare.
Just a mop, a few words, and a feeling that said more than either of them ever could.
And with a soft DING,
James knew the day was almost over.
Only two things remained: push-ups and abstinence.
After mopping the floor, it looked spotless—gleaming like a polished mirror.
But within minutes, the steady stream of footsteps from his siblings and parents had already dirtied it up.
"Haaah..."
James sighed and started again, dragging the mop across the tiles for the second, third, maybe fourth time.
He couldn't really complain—it was his family, after all, each busy with their own chores and duties.
---
By the time the clock hit 6:00 p.m., James was done with cleaning.
He decided to finish his push-ups before dinner. Doing them afterward would only lead to a stomachache—plus, with the added weight of food in his belly, everything would feel harder.
He lay flat on the floor, palms spread just ahead of his shoulders, glutes sticking a bit too high in the air.
And then he began.
One…
Two…
Three…
They weren't pretty.
His form looked more like a flailing seal than a proper push-up—his arms bent unevenly, his hips bobbing like they were the only part doing any work.
But the system didn't seem to care.
Somehow, it still registered every rep.
---
[✔] Do 50 push-ups
___
James collapsed onto the floor, panting, face smushed into the cold tile.
"Still counts," he said as he gasped for more air.
James stood up and walked toward the kitchen, phone in hand, the calorie tracker app already open.
His family had finished eating—only he and Julia hadn't had dinner yet.
He pulled out a chair and sat down beside the table, still drenched in sweat.
Julia took one look at him and recoiled.
"Augh! Don't get near me, you sweaty beast. Shoo, shoo!"
She flapped her hands at him like she was swatting away a wild animal.
James smirked.
"Yeah, yeah. As you say, my bratty princess."
He began logging his food as he ate, carefully tracking each bite.
He had 1,200 calories left for the day. For many, that would be plenty.
But for old James, it was barely an appetizer.
Still, as the saying went:
"The old me has passed—the new me has risen."
With that mantra echoing in his mind, James chewed slowly, savoring each bite like it might be his last.
And with a DING he knew that 2000 calories was already achieved and it was now time to stop eating.
James went to the bathroom once more, took a quick shower, and returned to his room.
He collapsed onto his bed, muscles beginning to ache.
Just as his eyes started to close—
Buzz.
His phone lit up.
[Summer]
( Hi! Sorry for the late message...my aunt asked me to relay something to you.
She said your work will mostly involve lifting and transferring materials.
(I know it's an elementary school, I'm confused too 😅)
Anyway, she said to bring extra shirts and a towel—you'll probably need them.
Other than that... goodnight! ☺️)
James stared at the screen, his cheeks tinged red.
"A message this late at night... from a girl? Am I dreaming?"
He muttered to himself, already typing a reply.
(To Summer:)
( No problem, Summer. Tell your aunt thanks for the opportunity—and thank you for letting me know.
Goodnight! 😊)
Just as he hit send, three dots popped up.
[Summer is typing...]
And with that, the back-and-forth began.
They both said goodnight...
But neither of them really meant it.
Each message was a reason not to sleep.
A way to hold the other's attention just a little longer.
And somehow, that quiet exchange across a glowing screen felt more intimate than anything James had ever known.
After about an hour of messaging back and forth, James finally set his phone down.
He couldn't afford to rely solely on the system to heal his aching muscles.
Not with the days getting harder. Not with his body being pushed more and more.
(To Summer:)
(Hehe... I gotta go now. Feeling sleepy. Anyway, I'm excited to work with you! 😊)
He smiled, plugged in his phone to charge, and did the unthinkable once again.
He tied himself up—mittens on his hands and a belt around his waist.
An awkward, uncomfortable setup that would stop him from giving in to temptation.
"I need Mom's help again... This is not sustainable,"
James muttered, staring at his strange reflection in the dark window.
To any outsider, he looked like a BDSM enthusiast who had clearly lost a bet.
But for James, this was war.
And sleep… was surrender.
He shifted under the covers, exhaling slowly as he slowly drifted into slumber.
Little by little, sleep pulled him under.
---
Midnight
James's dream was hazy—just flickers of something warm, vivid, and distant.
But something pulled him back.
His eyes cracked open in the darkness, groggy.
His arms were still bound, mittens still in place, but something felt... off.
A sticky, wet discomfort clung to his underwear.
"...Shit."
He sighed.
He didn't need to check. He already knew.
"Not this again..."
After years of it fading into the background, it returned.
A wet dream.
And for a moment, James simply lay there—disgusted, embarrassed,
and maybe even a little defeated.
"Seriously... I tie myself up, I train all day, and my own body betrays me?"
He stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the electric fan the only sound in the room.
Maybe tomorrow he'd laugh about it.
But for now, he just groaned and turned to the side,
whispering one last thing to no one in particular...
"...I need a new strategy, but first ...A change of underwear is a must..."